


Lady Lazarus

by A Magiluna Stormwriter (ariestess)



Series: #666foryou [300]
Category: Damien (TV)
Genre: Apologies, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Missing Scene, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 09:35:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7971943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariestess/pseuds/A%20Magiluna%20Stormwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once again, I've succeeded in screwing things up spectacularly.  It's like an art…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lady Lazarus

**Author's Note:**

> Date Written: 5 September 2016  
> Word Count: 643  
> Prompt: "Lady Lazarus" by Sylvia Plath  
> Summary: Once again, I've succeeded in screwing things up spectacularly. It's like an art…  
> Spoilers: Stream of consciousness missing scene, taking place during the events of episode 01x09 "The Devil You Know." Beyond that, everything we learned in these 10 episodes is up for grabs.  
> Warnings: Character death.  
> Series: #666foryou  
> Series: Ariel  
> Website: ShatterStorm Productions – Doggie Duo  
> Link to: http://bdkk.shatterstorm.net/  
> Archive: ShatterStorm Productions & AO3 only…all others ask for permission & we'll see…  
> Feedback: Constructive criticism is always welcome.
> 
> Author’s Disclaimer: "Damien," "The Omen," the characters, and situations depicted are the property of Glen Mazzara, David Seltzer, 20th Century Fox Television, Fox 21, and A&E Television Networks. This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes. Previously unrecognized characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. This site is in no way affiliated with "Damien," "The Omen," A&E, or any representatives of the actors.
> 
> Author’s Notes: This fic is probably one of the hardest ones I've written in this entire project. This poem is very dear to my heart for reasons that I don't need to get into here. I knew in taking on this secondary _Ariel_ -based project that I'd have to deal with this poem and its attendant issues for me. That I chose this particular moment for Veronica seems very apropos, and maybe that's why it felt so difficult to write. A fic about a character's dying thoughts inspired by a poem about suicide, and written by a woman who grew up chronically depressed and suicidal. Where could things go wrong in writing it? Hopefully I haven't stepped on any toes in writing this one. That definitely wasn't my intention… And maybe this exorcised a few demons. Who knows?
> 
> Dedication: This is part of a series of stories to thank the phenomenal creative team of _Damien_ , both in front of and behind the camera.
> 
> Beta: theonlyspl

"Dying  
Is an art, like everything else.  
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.  
I do it so it feels real."  
\-- Sylvia Plath, "Lady Lazarus"

 

I am told that I'm something of a perfectionist. A carbon copy of my mother. Given how often I've failed, I'm not sure I can see the resemblance.

I have her eyes, though she denies this even in the cold light of day when we stand side by side and look into the mirror. Her cheekbones aren't as defined as mine; or maybe I have that turned around. Sometimes it's hard to remember who has accepted which similarities. In the end, I suppose it hardly matters.

I take that back. I do tend toward the perfectionistic tendencies. I have grown up wanting to prove my worth to my mother. I was the second daughter, technically the third child, given her attachments to Damien. The bar was set high from the moment of my birth. No, it was my conception. I don't know who my father is, but I know that he's someone she is somehow ashamed of. Or maybe it's me that she's ashamed of. Will I ever get an honest answer from her for that?

Not that it matters anymore. It's not like I can ever speak to her again. She made her choice and, in the end, I'll pay for it. I always pay for my shortcomings. Sometimes it feels like I pay for hers, too. Just once, I wish I could return to that little girl who loved her mommy more than anything in the world, who knew she was loved and cherished, no matter what.

I don't know exactly when it started, but something in me triggered the need to prove I was worthy of her praise. When did her love become conditional, contingent on me following exacting rules that changed without my knowledge? When did I become less than an ideal that can never be attained? When did I lose my place in her heart?

With every word of criticism, I lost another tendril of connection to the woman who bore me and loved me. Did I remind her of the embarrassment of a one night stand gone wrong? Was I too much like the man who fathered me? Does she hate him so much that her impotent rage was then substituted upon me? How can I possibly move past that?

I don't want to die. I don't want to do this alone. I don't want to take my last breath and not be able to tell her that I love her one last time. I haven't done that enough. I chose to rebel against her -- parties with alcohol, low grades despite knowing the material, risqué clothes and habits -- not because I didn't care, but because I wanted to gain her attention. Even negative attention is better than indifference to a teenager who doesn't understand the changes in her life. Any cry for help and attention was met with criticism and antagonism. Maybe I was the antagonistic one, I don't know.

I just want to see my mother one last time, apologize for being the way I was. Simone's not even here to pass on my apologies. She'll never know that I didn't mean to cause her more trouble, that I just wanted her undivided attention and love for a few minutes. I just wanted to know that I still meant something to her other than in my professional capacities. But no, I'm stuck in the woods in the middle of the night, bleeding out and likely never to see the light of day again. Or my mother's face.

I'm sorry, Mom. Once again, I've succeeded in screwing things up spectacularly. It's like an art… I hope you can forgive me for failing you one last time.


End file.
